


2130 AD

by ifloveistheanswer



Category: Daft Punk
Genre: IM UPDATING THIS AGAIN, M/M, overlords AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifloveistheanswer/pseuds/ifloveistheanswer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bangalter-Christo Empire is at the peak of prosperity when an attack forces its robot monarchs to take up arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Towering, Bangalter is roughly six foot one of unequivocal disdain—arms tightly folded, stance wide and secure—and far more disturbing than any leader ought to be. His screen flashes words like red lightning, surging with snippets such as, "QUITE PITIFUL" and "WRETCHED CREATURE". The man kneeling on hands and knees before him has to crane his neck at uncomfortable slants to be able to read it. After several seconds, he gets the general idea that it's all just synonyms for, "You're a nasty human," and returns his glare to the floor as Bangalter continues deliberating a suitable retribution for the fleshy rebel.  
  
Behind him, de Homem-Christo is a golden shadow as he mimics his partner's hostile pose, though he comes up just a little short in all senses of the word—not quite enough pointy angles on his body to make him look imposing, not quite enough distance between him and the ground for him to be able to stare down at it condescendingly. "What shall we do with this one, Thomas?" he asks in a low, amiable tone, as if pondering their breakfast options. If robots were to have such a thing.  
  
Bangalter rubs the fur trim of his silk cloak between two fingers as he often does when deep in thought. The material hangs from his thin shoulders like ebony waves, pooling into foamy white ermine just past his elbows. Unlike most kings with a penchant for garish, multicolored garb, both Bangalter and de Homem-Christo opt to clothe themselves predominantly in black, more often than not. It appropriately likens them to harbingers of death rather than kings. Were it not for the grandiose thrones, luxurious red curtains, and massive marble archways looming in the backdrop, the accused might have mistaken his whereabouts for death row rather than a throne room.  
  
Fabric flourishes in glistening ruffles around Bangalter as he approaches the sorry knave and says evenly, "For an act as…  _underhanded_ as proposing an uprising against your supreme rulers, I think the punishment should be proportionately great. Do you not agree, Guillaume?"  
  
De Homem-Christo says nothing, simply nodding his dome a millimeter. He is a good steward of language; he does not tend to speak unless the situation really calls for it.  
  
"Right, then." Bangalter hefts an oppressive foot onto the man's shoulder, and the weight crushes the man to the tile with a thud and a crack of his chin. Bangalter is unwavering as he digs a heel into the vulnerable, pliable skin. De Homem-Christo creeps up from behind and leans against Bangalter's back, watching the great sport unfold. "For your sins against the monarchy and the very good of our illustrious kingdom, you must be punished."  
  
The man winces, then regains confidence and spits at Bangalter's other foot. "Fuck your filthy tin can monarchy in the ass," he snarls despite the newfound pain in his jaw.  
  
Bangalter and de Homem-Christo exchange wordless looks. Bangalter nods, assenting to something unspoken. De Homem-Christo crouches down and cradles the bruised chin between taut fingers, forcing the man to wrench his face upwards once more. A grimace is reflected back at him in de Homem-Christo's black, soulless screen.  
  
They speak in unison: "Sir Zimmerman, your gracious reigning kings hereby sentence you to robotization." And in unison, they cast Sir Zimmerman off to the side and stand up straight, dusting themselves of mortal filth.  
  
The tight-lipped defiance of the perpetrator crumbles away into unfiltered horror—disgust—fear. His face contorts into a red pucker. He cries openly for them to spare him, imprison him for life, grace him with the gallows, but Bangalter and de Homem-Christo have already long since lost interest in the man. De Homem-Christo claps his hands twice, summoning a pair of hefty guard units to carry the vulgar, screaming human away, leaving the two of them to settle back into their thrones and discuss the weather.  
  
"This humidity is awful on my gears," chirps Bangalter, even as Sir Zimmerman's slanders against the robot race echo from the hallway.  
  
De Homem-Christo nods and rests a thoughtful hand against Bangalter's knee. "We really should do something about that."  
  
It is the year 2130 AD in the year of our robot overlords, and the joint sovereignty of Kings Bangalter and de Homem-Christo has never been stronger.


	2. Discipline

In most aspects, life in the Bangalter-Christo Empire is ideal. Diversity is welcome amongst the residents. Living conditions are stable. The solar energy is affordable, and the air is clean. Technology is surprisingly low key, considering the nature of their rulers. The rural architecture and occupations lend to a certain old-fashioned calm that the people take pride in; the Empire hangs onto reverence for its lengthy past like an elder waxes nostalgic for their youth, and there's enough celebratory holidays in place to prove it. (The rich and the poor alike will dance together on such occasions, as there's little concept of classism in their culture.)  
  
The Empire's most prominent characteristic is the fact that it's an incredibly normal island, little more than a random speck on a map. Its secluded nature leaves it to its own devices, and the residents are typically happy to mind their business and avoid the turbulence of mainland colonies. The port cities makes a modest profit off of exporting fish and crops, and that is about as intimate with other countries as anyone there is inclined to be.  
  
Its monarchy has not had interest in conquering and expanding since the Empire's youth and they prefer to form neither friends nor enemies with outsiders. The borders of the island are still fortified and armies are still trained faithfully, because they are not so naïve as to believe that the surrounding oceans will suffice as protection. However, the last time they were forced into conflict, they whipped their foes so soundly that it was penned with utmost haste into history books and thereby served as a warning to any future adversaries foolish enough to raise their weapons against the Empire. The army's been largely idle ever since. Robots are indomitable tacticians.  
  
Along with the almost nonexistent concerns for foreign hostilities, crime rates are admirably low. Guardbots roam the streets day and night, friendly enough in mannerisms to keep from frightening civilians but powerful enough to deter any untoward behaviors in their presence. There are highs and lows to having robots in a position of power over a mostly human population, but the general consensus is positive, so very few raise complaints.  
  
If anything, it must be said of the robots that they are consistent to a calculated degree. It is this consistency that's propelled their small Empire through centuries of peacetime and prevented a great deal of unnecessary lineage drama. With trained mechanics and repairbots on hand at all times, centuries have only served as a generous timeframe for improving Bangalter and de Homem-Christo's synthetic bodies. Heirs and succession feuds are irrelevant to the seemingly immortal kings. Their metal-plated hands are what whipped the Empire into something respectable in the beginning, and the citizens suspect that it will someday be by those same hands that the Empire is laid to rest. Surely, the villages will crumble to dust long before their kings ever do.  
  
Like any other organized establishment of its caliber, though, the Bangalter-Christo Empire has its own fair share of dirty secrets. Luckily, along with the rest of their ever-growing resume of aptitudes, robots are good at keeping secrets.  
  
"My lords, a grievance court request has been filed as urgent." An errandbot bows at a preprogrammed angle for a measured amount of time before lifting his respectful LCD gaze up again. Despite the message, his staunch posture suggests no real urgency.  
  
"Everyone believes their grievances to be very urgent," Bangalter speculates without missing a beat. He taps fingertips noisily against the golden arms of his throne. Beside him, de Homem-Christo nods along. "Who filed this one?"  
  
"Sir Moore, your majesty."  
  
Bangalter gives a pause that, coming from anyone else, would be meaningless, but coming from him is a flagrant show of emotion. De Homem-Christo takes note and turns to face his partner, though he says nothing.  
  
"…I see."  
  
The errandbot hovers in his spot, unsure of how to proceed with this clipped response. De Homem-Christo finally vocalizes in Bangalter's stead, saying, "Tell Sir Moore we will not convene. As you were."  
  
The errandbot dips his head again and wanders off, leaving the kings to a thick silence.  
  
Bangalter has never been one to conceal his thoughts from de Homem-Christo. Years of partnership have blessed de Homem-Christo with the ability to, more or less, approximate Bangalter's thoughts purely by finger movements, head tilts, and intervals of silence, but he's rarely forced to utilize this ability. Patience usually coaxes answers out of the silver robot.  
  
' _Sir Moore has a right to grievance court,_ ' Bangalter—Thomas, when it's just the two of them—transmits the meek sentence to him through wireless modules. They have a variety of modes of private communication that comes in handy for situations where they're unable to say something out loud, for whatever given reason. This mode in particular only works when they're within short range of each other, but it is also the most intimate. It opens their minds to each other's words, allowing one to rest strings of thoughts or even commands amongst the other's own thoughts. Unlike aural sensors, which can be easily interrupted or shut out, there is no ignoring these short range transmissions. Additionally, the transmissions tend to go much faster than spoken communication.  
  
' _As does anyone. However, we are not required by law to convene unless a party of no less than fifteen individuals deigns it urgent._ ' De Homem-Christo—Guillaume, only when it's coming from Thomas—is an advocate of following rules to the letter. His mind adheres quite strictly to logic, and for this reason, he is usually the one to nitpick at semantics and punctuation when laws or guidelines of any kind are being drafted. Logic is his greatest strength, and his perhaps his greatest weakness.  
  
Thomas props his chin against an elbow and crosses his legs. He does a lot of meaningless things with his limbs when agitated. ' _Not required, but we still can. Sir Moore has always been faithful to us. Why deny him?_ '  
  
' _Because you already know what his grievance is. You know that he wants to dispute the appointed punishment of Sir Zimmerman._ '  
  
' _Sir Moore will gather support. He is loved by many. And then we will be forced to convene regardless._ '  
  
Guillaume balls his fists. ' _So let him. We will deal with his following when they become an issue. The fact remains that Zimmerman's actions were an overwhelmingly blatant disregard of the law. If you require a refresh for your short term memories, I can relay the exact details of said laws._ ' It's a passive-aggressive way of putting Thomas into place—a sugarcoated version of, 'I don't trust you to go into grievance court and not come out second guessing our decision.'  
  
Thomas resents that. He stands up in a swish of tense muscles and fluttering silk, shutting down the wireless link between them. "My short term memory is just fine, thank you," he huffs out loud. His visor blinks with some meaningless lights, perhaps an aborted attempt at glaring.  
  
Guillaume watches his thin back disappear down a hallway, and the golden robot doesn't fret too much about it. The anger isn't directed at him, after all. It's directed at Thomas' own sense of humanity, a thing he strives to escape, yet also clings onto desperately. His means of coping with the rift between his uniquely robotic-organic mixture have changed with the seasons. Guillaume remembers early on in their existence, when they were simpler constructions, that Thomas often struggled with internal conflict. There would be days where he was very much a normal automaton, and there would be days where Guillaume feared that Thomas would tear himself apart completely from the violent fluctuations between man and machine.  
  
Sometimes, Thomas would try, too. He really would, but his own directive to self-preserve always stopped him before he got deep enough into his wiring to find the heart at his core. On those days, Guillaume learned the intricacies of his companion's innards and taught himself how to weld everything back together. He could never discern if Thomas appreciated or resented him for it.  
  
They survived and pressed on through the years, changing into the hands of more experienced builders possessing more advanced materials. Their bodies grew stronger as technology progressed at frightening speeds. Thomas stabilized significantly during this time period, though the difficulties of conciliating his different halves never truly vanished.

"I could replace your brain," said one master they had, back when they were still household automatons. "Honestly, I don't know why anyone hasn't yet. You're at greater risk with that messy conglomeration of biological matter in you…"  
  
"Because," Thomas said, stiff and dignified. Even then, he had conviction suited for royalty. "I have not let them. Neither will I allow you."  
  
Any attempts to cajole him into explaining why he retains his inferior organic portions have thus far been fruitless. Guillaume has long since resigned to the fact that it might be the only thing about Thomas that he never fully comprehends, perhaps because Thomas does not understand it himself.  
  
At length, Guillaume rises from his throne, the emptiness of the one beside him too profound for his liking. He straightens out his furs and squares his shoulders and resumes his role as King de Homem-Christo once more. If his partner is not in the frame of mind to attend to duties, then de Homem-Christo shall act in his place.  
  
Empires do not run themselves, after all.


	3. Miserere

"Good morning, Sir Zimmerman," drones a nameless wardenbot from the other side of iron bars. Its tinny voice tears Zimmerman away from a thin, fragile sleep. He braces himself up onto battered elbows, lifting his frown from a lice-covered pillow. The bed creaks and screams beneath him as if movement causes it misery most absolute.  
  
Zimmerman's tongue is coated with acid. He wants to make a biting remark, something about how robots are stupid to be polite in such situations, or how hopeless an existence designated solely to dealing with assholes like himself must be, but at the end of the day, he's the one getting tossed into the barbaric robotizing machine, so all present, wardenbots or otherwise, know who the real sucker is here already. He spits what little saliva his mouth is still able to produce onto the filthy prison floor instead.  
  
They don't cuff him when he exits the cell. He figures that he's probably too hilariously outgunned for them to consider it a necessary precaution. Sandwiched between two guards that could make King Bangalter look like a dwarf, Zimmerman tries not to think too hard about what's to come. They escort him down pitch black hallways that smell so pungently of copper and bleach, he can nearly taste the mixture on his chapped lips.  
  
In some perspectives, this isn't the worst of penalties. The kings are not completely inhumane; the machine will first shoot him up with sedatives strong enough to sink an elephant into deep sleep before destroying all parts of the body involved with the sense of touch. Never again shall he feel pain, as shall he never experience pleasure, and when it's over, he'll still be 'alive' in a sense. Alive, with his memories of the robotization process erased along with whatever thoughts or behaviors drove him to this punishment in the first place. Alive, as a pile of sentient metal, unfeeling and one-track minded and infuriatingly polite, even when escorting an infamous criminal to his doom.  
  
God, who is he kidding? He'd rather be burned at the stake. At least that would be a romantic death befitting a rebel of his magnitude.  
  
"Sir Zimmerman," says another wardenbot, standing dutifully in front of the machine's entrance. The machine is a monstrous slew of garbage, like a construction site that collapsed in on itself and continued to be built over as is. Steam hisses out of its cracks like angry whispers, seeping out of scraping metal panels and dissipating into the cold prison air. It's the size of a small house and the color of dried blood, and it almost seems to breathe with the way it expands and compresses as it performs whatever necessary functions it needs to maintain within. The wardenbot's hand hovers over a panel that requires the touch of an authorized unit in order to open the hatch.  
  
"Sir Zimmerman," it repeats when it gets the suspicion that Zimmerman might pass out at the sight of the apparatus. "For your sins against the monarchy and the very good of our illustrious kingdom, and at the express command of our gracious reigning Kings Bangalter and de Homem-Christo, I hereby allot you the unit number JZ05. May your new life be productive and _comme il faut_ thusly."  
  
The hatch opens with an entire sigh of steam, and the dark room is illuminated by a sickly aquamarine light. Guardbots form a wall behind Zimmerman, leaving him no choice but to walk forward.  
  
Holding in what may be his final breath, the impudent man steps forward and raises his arms up as if to praise the heavens, but instead, both of his middle fingers are elevated.  
  
"See you fuckers in robot hell, I guess," he says. The hatch closes behind him, and life goes on.

* * *

Activity in the castle begins precisely at 4 AM. All units' internal clocks are synchronized down to the second, and the unanimous buzz of bodies starting up across the building escalates in audibility within moments, like a dead hummingbird being startled back to life. The staff does not waste a single beat; no sooner than they're alert and checked for a clean system, servantbots are fluttering off left and right to their various responsibilities.  
  
Bangalter and de Homem-Christo are allowed a full extra minute to awaken on the sole premise that royalty should be permitted the luxury of wasting time now and then. Unlike human kings who need to eat and drink and defecate and sleep for six hours, robots as advanced as these two can be fully charged in four hours and prepared for duty within one. They are efficiency personified, so it is only fair that they are allowed an occasional pause to let their minds idle.  
  
De Homem-Christo always rises first. When he does, Bangalter often likes to nestle further into his side of the bed, even though they both know he is perfectly awake. De Homem-Christo will urge him from the spot with a push or a plea for cooperation, and only then will Bangalter slide out from underneath beautifully embroidered blankets and disentangle himself from his power cord.  
  
For all intents and purposes, neither of them have practical use for a bed. They could go into sleep mode just as well standing or sitting on the floor or even hanging upside down, but the aesthetic of a bedroom without a bed is strange, and having one gave them an excuse to commission a famous seamstress for bedsheets and a canopy. To the expectations of none, the kings are lovers of the arts. This fact is expressed in elegant landscapes and portraits adorning their walls, and in the exhaustive collection of records they've procured over the years—a collection so sizable that only their most beloved pieces stay shelved in the bedroom, and the rest are filed away in a room of their own.  
  
Bangalter utters a garbled "good morning," as his vox processor is not functioning at full speed just yet. De Homem-Christo nods his approval, and they stand by the foot of their bed in anticipation of incoming maidbots. Six such units file into the room and retrieve the day's assigned garments.  
  
Three units attend to each king, assisting in the removal of their loose nighttime attire. The silken articles are dropped to the floor and kicked aside in favor of tight girdles and waistcoats, leather pleats and steel-toed boots. They tie everything into place within minutes, securing gilded platelets and ornate buckles in just a matter of some clicks and a tug.  
  
The crowns are always the last to go on—silver and gold, corresponding to de Homem-Christo and Bangalter respectively. They swapped crowns ages ago as a sign of trust and togetherness, to show the world how inextricably connected their existences were. To say, "My authority is yours, and yours mine." Neither has worn their own color in perhaps centuries.  
  
The maidbots bow and take their leave. Bangalter adjusts his cape more to his liking. De Homem-Christo straightens out his belt just a bit. They turn to each other, the same as they have every morning since the parturition of their country. They assess each other as if each did not already have the other's innermost workings committed to memory. They are consorts and companions, but beyond that they also share a deep, unrivaled devotion that transcends pure design.  
  
An automaton's equivalent to affection, so to speak.  
  
Between them, Bangalter is the one who most often desires physical expression of affection. This is one such morning that he acts on the impulse, and de Homem-Christo allows it. A silver hand finds purchase in the curve of de Homem-Christo's neck, on what little of his synthetic skin is still exposed. Fingertips seem to count pores, mapping out textures and snags of artificial flesh upon artificial flesh. Bangalter's gaze drifts up and down, then finally settles itself against de Homem-Christo's visor.  
  
Bangalter's posture is relaxed, his hands impossibly easy and gentle. He is at the peak of vulnerability, and for this moment, he is Thomas. Had Guillaume been anyone other than Guillaume—someone less faithful, someone less honorable—Thomas could have easily been run through with a knife and left to perish. He would not have the reflexes to tighten his body into resistance, so loose is his grip, so trusting is his touch. It makes Guillaume act against logic and touch him in return. Such a deep faith warrants reciprocation.  
  
' _We must attend a finances report soon_ ,' Guillaume reminds his partner with a tentative lacing of fingers.  
  
' _Let us go, then_.'  
  
Just as abruptly as their morning routine began, they move away from each other like nothing happened and march off to whatever business awaits them. Their minds are able to shift to other matters without lingering on previous thoughts—an ability well-suited to individuals with as much to attend to as they have. They leave their bedroom and everything that's ever transpired in it behind.


	4. Waters

Obligation—rather than interest or any real necessitation—is what forces Bangalter and de Homem-Christo to participate in ordeals like meetings, conferences, and financial reports. They sit, side by side, at the end of a table filled with other semi-related parties and listen to someone give a lengthy discourse on how everything is just as it should be and probably always will be. Usually the speaker is a robot programmed for the given task, and unlike humans who tend to want to pad meetings with a slew of dispensable formalities and statistics, such units jump straight to the point. All accountable are grateful for it, robots and humans alike.  
  
Unfortunately, today it comes to light that The Minister of Finance (a unit well-respected and well-loved for his concise reports that never span longer than ten minutes) has fallen victim to a ruthless virus that locked him out of his own files. In a panic, he was forced to erase his own memories.  
  
"We assure you that The Minister of Finance will make a full recovery," says the minister's portly secretary, offering a phony smile that's more nauseating than it is reassuring. "The technicians are currently hard at work determining the source of the virus, as well as reconstructing his lost memories. In the meantime, I've compiled hardcopies of this quarter's summary into a powerpoint format, so I hope this will be an acceptable substitute in his absence. Now, let me start up the projector…"  
  
The kings endure without audible complaint. They're well aware that all duties must be taken in stride, both the enjoyable and the mundane. Of course, that does not bar them from wireless gossip.

' _I cannot fathom that anyone can be this inept in the year 2130_ ,' quips de Homem-Christo as they watch the man stumble about with cables and switches like he's never seen a piece of technology in his short, mortal life.

Bangalter flexes his fingers, quelling an urge to stand up and do the job himself, just to save the man and everyone subjected to watching him from embarrassment. ' _He certainly does seem inexperienced for a secretary. I wonder what drove The Minister to select him._ '

' _A safeguard_ ,' de Homem-Christo answers immediately, having already considered the same thing himself long ago. ' _When dealing with delicate information such as finances—that is to say, information other countries might want to embezzle or use against us—it is prudent to keep around a non-hackable backup. Even if it is terribly doltish._ '

The Secretary cheers weakly by himself when the projector sputters into cooperation. He begins his speech with a pointless introduction about the state of their empire, and the kings give the appearance of caring for a generous ten minutes before they return to wireless note passing. They've been to enough financial reports to calculate where this one is going already.

' _The Minister would have been done by now_ ,' complains Bangalter.

De Homem-Christo nods in passionate agreement. ' _I am promoting his repair to top priority of all staff in the castle_.'

* * *

"A word, if I may, my lords," The Secretary says once the meeting room is empty except for himself and the kings. With just the three of them, the long, long table feels even longer. The projector is off and the files are tucked neatly into a folder that he holds under his armpit.  
  
"You've already said quite a few," de Homem-Christo is unable to stop himself from remarking. The Secretary just titters in response.  
  
"Words of a different persuasion, your majesty." He pushes glasses up a sweaty, blunt nose and lowers his voice. "While what I have just reported is true—our finances are, for the time being, secure—I do not trust that it always will be."  
  
Bangalter folds his hands and asks patiently, "Elaborate."  
  
"The Minister's virus was no accident. His memories are some of the most heavily encrypted in our empire. He was built for that job, you know? Someone had to have made a conscious effort to hack him… and they were dangerously close to succeeding."  
  
Bangalter and de Homem-Christo exchange looks.  
  
"He's not the only one in danger, either. Any units—any robots, yourselves included, are liable. When you connect to networks or even use wireless frequencies of any kind, there is always a risk that someone will find a way to connect back with malicious intent." The man's words are picking up speed, though his voice remains a quiet mutter. His eyes roam the room as he speaks, as if checking for predators. "Furthermore, I believe the virus sent to The Minister was only the beginning. It was a premeditated attack, and I cannot imagine someone would engineer a virus just to scare us and put The Minister in sickbay for a little while. They were testing the waters."  
  
"Waters," de Homem-Christo echoes.  
  
"Testing to see how far they could go." His gaze hardens. Skin gathers into wrinkled bunches around his eyes. He pushes up his glasses again, almost dropping the files in the process this time. "They'll be back—with a modified virus, no doubt. That's what I believe. And if they succeed, even you'll be in danger. My lords."  
  
Bangalter digests this information with a nod and a shifting of hips. "Then it is advisable for us to—to improve our security software, it seems."  
  
"I'm not confident that it'll be enough, but yes."  
  
"What would you suggest?"

His tone remains the same, but de Homem-Christo can tell from the tightness of his arms that Bangalter is frustrated.

The Secretary hesitates. He tucks the files tighter between his arm and his side, takes a step back, and weighs his words carefully. He gives his head a small shake, dismissing some thought. "What I would suggest is impossible for robots in a position of authority. You and all other units in charge of important information would have to cease communications that were not local. That is to say, no transmitting messages, no connecting to anything that something else could connect to—with or without wires—no referencing online resources, or connecting to servers of any kind. You could talk orally, and perhaps plug in to charge at night. Short distance transmissions might be acceptable as well, as long as you were careful to check the premises for… intruders. Or bugs."

"You are suggesting we limit our communication like…" de Homem-Christo gives an uncharacteristic pause. He gestures furiously to fill the silence. "Like… like humans."

"Precisely."

"That's impossible for us," Bangalter interjects. "For some of the less important units or units in charge of smaller duties, it might be viable. But for units like The Minister and ourselves, our stored information is so great that the excess must be saved onto servers. The inability to access our servers safely would be to give up an unspeakable amount of memories."

This knowledge is not news to the outwardly dimwitted man. He nods as if he's heard this conversation before. "That's why it is impossible."

"So then it's simply a risk we must take," says de Homem-Christo with the smallest touch of defiance in his tone. He resents the idea that anything is impossible for them. Especially not something that's possible for humans. "We will devise stronger security and go from there."

The Secretary turns his back and heads for the door—a conversational closure most disrespectful, but in this situation, Bangalter and de Homem-Christo are too distracted to admonish him for his insolence. "Then I wish you the best of luck with that endeavor." As his hand grips the door handle, he pauses and glances over his shoulder. "If I might offer one more suggestion?"

"Granted," says either Bangalter or de Homem-Christo. It doesn't really matter which one.

"While I'm aware of our country's policy of staying uninvolved with the mainland… Well, I think that if there's a chance that this virus came from the mainland, it's time we get involved. There's a peace conference at the end of the month that your majesties are always indefinitely invited to. You would do well to attend this one."

"To make friends with the other countries?" Bangalter asks, disdainful but not completely rejecting the idea.

The Secretary shakes his head. "To see if you could smell a rat. Find someone who seems hostile towards us. If you can nip the problem at its source, you don't have to worry about defending yourself against it."

The kings fold their arms and process this. In the time that it takes them to do so, The Secretary mumbles his goodbyes and sees himself out. Their immediate reflex is to retreat to short range communication, but on the tailwinds of what was just discussed, they're inclined to neglect their wireless modules for a little while.

"We…"

De Homem-Christo interrupts, "I feel unsafe with audible communication here. Let's return to our quarters."


	5. Guard

Even within the short timespan of the journey between the conference hall and their personal quarters, they find themselves itching for short range communication. By the time they arrive, they realize just how extensively they've come to rely on a constant stream of commentary from one another. It is strange to realize that humans can never maintain the mute, private transferral of thoughts like robots of their make can. Granted, the average human probably has considerably fewer thoughts of value to express.  
  
Bangalter closes their double doors and locks them for good measure. He picks up on his last thought without hitch. "We must make preparations for the conference."  
  
De Homem-Christo perches himself on the edge of their bed and folds his arms. One by one, he shoots off contradictions without pause: "We have never attended one before. Our presence will alert the attendees and our people that something is amiss. And, assuming that whoever is responsible for the virus attack is present, they will conclude that we are on their trail. Then they will know to guard themselves against us."  
  
It is expected of de Homem-Christo to already have the details and potential flaws in the plan already mapped out in his mind. Bangalter is still slightly thrown off, despite this. "But… The Secretary…"  
  
"Is a human with flawed logic," comes the clipped rebuttal, slicing through Bangalter's sentence like a sword.  
  
Bangalter grants himself a short interval to recover and fidget with his French cuffs. He straightens them out to mathematic perfection and smooths thumbs over the silver buttons. A moment passes, and then something finally occurs to him. "You just don't want to be around humans." If his voice weren't so even, the statement would be dangerously close to an accusation. De Homem-Christo stills and inclines his chin upwards to meet his partner's gaze.  
  
"…Pardon?"  
  
"The people are unconcerned with our actions. We have raised a generation untouched by war. Our attendance to a peace conference would be seen as idle mingling, at worst." Bangalter advances a step. "Furthermore, the perpetrator could not have been foolish enough to think that we'd be unaware of The Minister's fall. It was their intention that we'd be on alert. If we do nothing, they might see our inaction as fear or passivity."  
  
With each thought, he approaches de Homem-Christo until he is looming over the other robot with confidence. His vertical superiority is even greater with de Homem-Christo sitting, a fact de Homem-Christo takes note of and rises to alleviate.  
  
"You just don't want to attend the conference because you'll be forced to rub elbows with human leaders." If Bangalter's thin line of a mouth could move, de Homem-Christo suspects the bastard would have been grinning. It makes him grateful that neither of them have nasty, fleshy mouths.  
  
"I resent that accusation."  
  
"Because it's true?"  
  
De Homem-Christo constricts his folded arms tightly against his chest, which is more than explicit enough of an answer. Bangalter lets out a garbled sound that takes de Homem-Christo a moment to recognize as laughter. He leans in close to his sulking companion, their chests nearly touching.  
  
"Don't be cross with me," Bangalter pleads. He forms his vowels with prowess, molding them to be gentle, coaxing, manipulative in a way that the flatness of transferred text cannot be. Oral communication has its perks. "I will do all the talking for you. They'll barely even know you're there."  
  
De Homem-Christo turns his body imperceptibly towards Bangalter. He knows he's being played into the silver bot's wishes. This would not be the first time. "Why not go alone, then?" he asks in an unconvincing manner that suggests he's not actually keen on the idea of Bangalter going alone.  
  
Bangalter answers right away, "Because I need you," and he answers with such finality that de Homem-Christo cannot bring himself to press for elaboration. Besides, he knows the particulars. They are components of each other, if not in body, at least in mind. He is not so arrogant as to believe that Bangalter necessarily needs him to converse with the human leaders and expose the information they're looking for, but the support is a comfort that they refuse to do without.  
  


* * *

  
A month so routine that it's almost suspicious in itself passes. The only incident they face is Sir Moore petitioning once more for a grievance court, just like Bangalter knew he would. The support he gathers is greater and more vocal than either king anticipated, however, and neither can find a valid enough reason to avoid convening without agitating the riled crowd further. They utilize the upcoming peace conference as an excuse to at least postpone things for a few more weeks, and for the time being, that issue is mentally shelved. Out of sight, out of short term memory bank, so to speak. The rest of their energy is devoted to planning and preparing for the conference.  
  
As neither has attended a mainland conference before, neither king knows the methodology or etiquette of the whole affair, a fact that puts Bangalter on his toes and de Homem-Christo in a sour mood. De Homem-Christo, ever the tactician, does not make a practice of putting himself in uninformed situations if he can avoid it. Bangalter, on the other hand, is brave—or daft—enough to be anticipating it.  
  
Whether Bangalter's enthusiasm stems from the prospect of a new task or from the opportunity to socialize with fresh blood, de Homem-Christo has yet to determine. Rather, he tries not to think much about it at all.  
  
The day arrives, anticlimactic in its normalcy. They awaken the same as any other day and break habit by rerouting their maid units to attend to other tasks. Monday is typically their bathing day, and bathing is a job mundane enough to leave to maids, but today they've decided to see to it themselves. No maid knows their workings well enough to truly do a perfect cleanup. God forbid the mainlanders see them as anything other than a picture of immaculacy.  
  
The bathroom—if it can really be called that, since it lacks a bathtub of any description—is a simple structure linked to their bedroom by double doors (because they have a rule that nothing worth opening in a castle ever has anything less than two doors). It's formed in a circle with neutral tiles reflecting neutral walls. The sun beams through a single window, cut high in the wall to the door, and shines geometric shapes through a crystal chandelier.  
  
Nestled against the curve of the walls are tall rosewood cabinets, each filled with an organized assortment of different cleansers and repair tools. Bangalter takes some bottles and neatly folded microfiber cloths from one and brings them over to de Homem-Christo. He has already shed himself of uniform and sits by the sinks, patient, used to this procedure.  
  
Pouring the liquids into bins, Bangalter dabs the corner of a cloth into isopropyl alcohol and sets to rubbing down de Homem-Christo's helmet. Alcohol for the screen, polish for the gold. He buffs every millimeter with gentle precision. De Homem-Christo reaches for a cloth and begins to do the same for his partner.  
  
Their arms work around each other without tangling or bumping; they know exactly how to angle their elbows and twist their wrists to make themselves fit at any given moment. Bangalter works into the tiny slits of de Homem-Christo's vents, and de Homem-Christo tips his chin up for easier access. De Homem-Christo swirls each rounded ridge of Bangalter's aural structures. Aside from the periodic dripping of a sink that they've put off having repaired, the cleaning proceeds in silence. Bangalter hums bits and pieces of different songs to break the monotony.  
  
The material of their bodies takes a special cleaner that, unbeknownst to them, smells like alcohol and clean jeans. Bangalter spreads the cleaner in careful moderation, avoiding sensitive ports and gliding across joints with the exactitude that comes from familiarity and practice. De Homem-Christo undoes Bangalter's double breasted coat and pushes it off his shoulders with a quiet swish of fabric. His cloth-covered fingers tarry at the back of Bangalter's slender neck—along the curves of his side where a metal 'ribcage' encloses his most sensitive innards—in the dip of his chest where a pulse can be felt.  
  
"What is it?" Bangalter asks at length, his voice soft.  
  
"Nothing," de Homem-Christo replies. He shakes his head. "Just remembering all the places you've hurt yourself before that I had to repair."  
  
Bangalter laughs a little. "Are you holding it against me?"  
  
De Homem-Christo retracts his arms and bunches them up against himself like how he always does when something offends him. "I'd never hold something like that against you."  
  
"I'm teasing."  
  
The gold bot loosens up only to continue cleaning, this time working on himself. He even turns his knees to the side for extra effect.  
  
"Guillaume…" Bangalter whines. "Let me clean…"  
  
De Homem-Christo spins around completely in his seat, giving Bangalter a lovely view of his back ports but also giving him a pair of very cold shoulders.  
  
"Guillauuume." When he is met with a frosty silence, Bangalter soaks his cloth in alcohol and inches over to his partner. He wraps his pointer finger in the dripping fabric and, with a mischievous glint flashing across his screen, presses the tip into a port that isn't especially important.  
  
De Homem-Christo reacts with a distorted shriek, jumping to his feet and upturning a bin of polish in the process. His entire body contorts with scandalization, torso bent over in defense, fists tight with well-trained reflex. By the time polish is pooling at his feet, he's figured out what happened. The small bot seems torn between crawling away from embarrassment or stomping his feet and throwing a fit. There's a tense moment where Bangalter thinks his better half just might do both, but instead, de Homem-Christo flips the bin of alcohol onto Bangalter's crotch and trots off to find the towel cabinet.  
  
None of it is conducive towards helping them arrive at the conference on time, but they have a good laugh about it once Bangalter confirms that his synthetic skin hasn't had any permanent damage. They also agree that maid units exist for a reason and perhaps self-bathing isn't as superior as they thought.


	6. Aprés Moi...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update, after three or so months of nothing, haha. This one took a lot of halfhearted research on matters I only vaguely understand, and to be honest, I was putting it off due to more important projects taking up the forefront of my mind. But this week I sat down and plowed through it. Unfortunately, it's not too interesting, but we're winding up for some more important developments...
> 
> To summarize events thus far (since I know it's been a while), The Minister of Finance was stricken by a terrible virus. At the suggestion of his secretary, the kings have decided to attend a peace conference on the mainland and search for potential suspects, as this virus could be just the beginning of a full-blown assault on the robots.

They arrive on the mainland, arm in arm and—miraculously—punctual to the second, expecting that their uniform entrance will go unnoticed. Roughly ten seconds on the dock proves otherwise when they find themselves surrounded by reporters and cameras. It occurs to the both of them that it's been years since they made any kind of public appearance on the mainland, so of course the humans are going to be toting  recording equipment to cope with their memory limitations. Humans have an odd fondness for documenting relatively insignificant happenings.  
  
Bangalter takes the attention in strides, while de Homem-Christo simply bears it like a necessary evil. Guards of their own—consisting predominantly of human escorts to avoid alienating themselves from the wholly human gathering—flank them from all sides, preventing any reporters from getting too close. Bodyguards are more or less unnecessary, as both kings could easily fend for themselves should danger arise, but it's bad form for sovereigns to get their hands too dirty in the public eye. A kingdom that can afford luxuries is a kingdom at peace, and the robot royals intend to paint themselves as portraits of harmony.  
  
As far as the mainland needs to be concerned, all's well with the Bangalter-Christo Empire. And always will be. That's the message they want to convey.  
  
Even in a situation as benign as a peace conference, Bangalter and de Homem-Christo tackle each step of the event as the tacticians they were known for being back in their conquering days. Everything is premeditated and deliberate on their part, from the way they walk (Bangalter's usual stride has carefully been modified to match de Homem-Christo's shorter legs), to the tilt of their chins (parallel to the ground, fixed straight ahead; they must look confident without looking haughty, as they've learned from past experiences that humans read expressions in the details of the robots' body language for lack of actual facial features), to the seemingly unconscious linking of their arms (one robot king is formidable; two who are in perfect agreement with one another, who are so intimately familiar with one another's thoughts that they walk as if extensions of each other's bodies… that is a force to be reckoned with. Or, preferably, not reckoned with at all. Ever).  
  
(That, and they have taken into account the human press's penchant for reading between the lines and then relaying those imaginary lines to the next day's papers. If Bangalter and de Homem-Christo are going to be in such headlines, they'd rather the speculations on their relationship be positive rather than mysterious. Where there is room for speculation, there is room for controversy.)  
  
From the various snippets of question and narration they can distinguish from the surrounding crowds, their reception is overall positive. Bangalter hears a reporter ask them about how the Empire has dealt with recent droughts, another about their motives for finally appearing on the mainland, another about their unprecedented role as the first successful robotic rulers in history. De Homem-Christo catches a few news hosts comment on their low-key arrival, another on the events of tonight, another on what the robots are wearing.  
  
If the humans have to gossip about anything, the make of their helmets or the height of their heels are not such undesirable topics. Of their appearance, Bangalter and de Homem-Christo have no worries.  
  
Bangalter itches for short range wireless conversation, yet he knows that now of all times is not when he should be utilizing such a weakly encrypted form of communication. If any enemy robots or machines should be within range and are clever enough to tap into their shared frequency, sensitive information might slip through the cracks. For now, spoken words are their safest bet. Spoken words can be picked with more caution than an unshielded flow of thoughts and feelings.  
  
They make their way past the microphones without sparing a single word for the inquiring minds. Velvet ropes stretched out between golden poles serve as a barrier between the arriving royals and the crowds, as well as a pathway for them to follow from the docks to their ride.  
  
De Homem-Christo regards the carriage designated to escort them with some interest. Horse-drawn carriages have been out of style on the mainland for hundreds of years, but in keeping with the image of "tradition," humans revert to old trends for the day of the peace conference. He supposes there's a sort of luxury in having beasts labor as pieces of a vehicle. Robots have little regard for traditions if they are inefficient, but for the sake of fitting in, they indulge in the proffered means of transportation.  
  
The coach is huge and, evidently, heavy enough to warrant four reined horses. Its body is gilded, beautiful, polished to perfection—perfect match for gold and silver men of metal. A footman nervously offers a hand out, but de Homem-Christo pushes the hand away. He's never been fond of humans fawning over them, and though sensitivity to their mission is important, he is not about to allow the human love of frailty soften him. Bangalter and de Homem-Christo are strong. They are warriors. They can step onto a carriage by themselves.  
  
In the relative solitude of the coach, Bangalter finally feels at peace enough to speak a few words.  
  
"We mustn't raise suspicions amongst the other dignitaries."  
  
De Homem-Christo doesn't lift his head to respond. "I'm aware of that."  
  
"Which means we must participate in the events as though we were attending for the same reasons they are. We must act…"  
  
"Flawed?" de Homem-Christo offers in what is as close as he'll ever get to a joke.  
  
"…Human," Bangalter settles on, shaking his head. "If we focus purely on finding our enemy, we'll draw unwanted attention to ourselves."  
  
"Then the others will wonder what we've done to make an enemy with a mainlander. They'll pry… Might even side with our enemy if it's to their benefit, or if it is where their loyalties lie."  
  
"Precisely."  
  
It occurs to de Homem-Christo that his partner is not simply clarifying the dangers to him. His partner is urging him to "play nice" with the masses for today. De Homem-Christo does not think of himself as unduly unkind, but he is becoming increasingly aware of his preference for only interacting with humans as much as he must.  
  
The mainland peace conferences are an odd affair. Research on past conferences revealed that they're more akin to big, glorified parties than any kind of negotiation ceremony, but perhaps it is this characteristic that keeps motivating everyone to reconvene once a year. Representatives from major countries all across the globe show up and exert their power, charms, and manners. At its essence, the conference is about making connections and shaking hands with potential allies, while also soothing the frayed nerves of potential rivals.  
  
As the humans put it, it's a chance to schmooze.  
  
Robots are not typically known for their ability to schmooze, but they can, at least, stand very straight and tall. Everyone seems impressed enough with that so far.  
  
"I will do my best to socialize satisfactorily with the others," de Homem-Christo finally says, sensing that Bangalter was hoping for some kind of reassurance. Bangalter visibly relaxes, confirming this suspicion.  
  
"Good. W-wonderful." He nods right as their ride comes to a stop. The footman tries once more to make their passage between carriage and ground an easier one, and this time, de Homem-Christo accepts the guiding hand.  
  
The conference makes no effort to distinguish itself from a less formal affair. The entire event takes place in the ballroom of Prime Minister Winter, a man known for both his remarkable organizational skills and for his love of dance music. Once they've put enough distance between themselves and the paparazzi, de Homem-Christo recognizes the intro to a bouncy piece he's loved for many years. Already, an ocean of dancers has formed at the center of the room, swaying like wheat in a breeze to sweeping violin arpeggios. De Homem-Christo offers a small nod of approval to no one in particular, then turns to follow Bangalter's lead to the host of the party.  
  
Unlike the other mingling dignitaries, they have no need or desire to make alliances, but it couldn't hurt to check in with the head of festivities. Winter might be a man of neutral territory, but he would know who all's present and, perhaps, whose leanings might not be so neutral. The sooner they find a clue as to whoever might be source of their virus scare, the sooner they can stop evading clumsily dancing humans.  
  
Bangalter seems to let his optic receptors linger on said dancers in an almost longing way, as if a part of him is pulling him towards the dance floor. De Homem-Christo could not possibly feel any more opposed to the thought than he already does.  
  
Skirting their way along the peripheral of the room, the two kings manage to navigate their way to Prime Minister Winter's vicinity. Around him is a small cloud of conference attendees, all smiling widely and conversing with him in merry tones. The robots are forced to wait in silence until Winter's much coveted attention can be spared for them. De Homem-Christo does not at all relish how… normal this makes him feel. The last time they were forced to wait on someone is so far back in his memories that it has been moved to longterm memory banks. The ones that they probably shouldn't access frivolously, lest they open themselves to malignant intrusions.  
  
He looks towards Bangalter, hoping he can discern whether his partner feels the same without a wireless communication to tell him so. He's dismayed, somehow, when he finds that Bangalter has deviated from his position at de Homem-Christo's side by a few feet to start a conversation with some other representative de Homem-Christo doesn't care to remember the name of.  
  
De Homem-Christo stares up at the ceiling just to escape the human eyes surrounding him at every turn, even if for only a moment. Instead, the painted eyes of assorted deities meet his gaze from a mural, less pressing than their real life equivalents but still distasteful in some irksome capacity. De Homem-Christo drops his line of sight down to the marble floor. Though it is illogical to attribute living characteristics to a piece of art, he senses something judgmental in the slant of their brows. He really does loathe human expressions.  
  
"Ahh, Kings Bangalter and de Homem-Christo!" Prime Minister Winter's lively voice snaps de Homem-Christo back to attention, while Bangalter has already moved to meet the host halfway in an embrace. "It's an honor to see you here. I do believe this is your first time joining our little get-together, yes?"  
  
De Homem-Christo does not even need to look around to confirm that this 'get-together' is anything but 'little.' However, he knows of humans' disdain for unnecessary corrections, so he lets the inaccurate statement slide. Bangalter is completely unfazed by Winter in all his humanness, enough so that he shakes the man's hand like they've met before.  
  
"It is indeed, Prime Minister Winter. It's our pleasure to participate in such a lovely affair."  
  
Descriptors of a positive or negative nature are purely subjective, but de Homem-Christo has to yield to the aesthetic appeal of Winter's high ceilings and slender, Corinthian columns. They _are_ lovely.  
  
...He doesn't quite know why he's analyzing each line of this exchange for factual accuracy in the first place. He tries to quiet his invasive, mechanical thoughts and focus on the conversation at hand.  
  
"Please, call me Pierre." Such immediate familiarity is wildly premature, but the prime minister has a way of curling a compelling smile around his words that makes both Bangalter and de Homem-Christo feel inclined to comply. It makes sense that the man in charge of a peace conference would be amiable and persuasive. Cleanly trimmed facial hair frames his grin.  
  
"Then please call us Thomas and Guillaume." Thomas calls upon a warm tone of voice that Guillaume is unaccustomed to hearing in professional settings. Guillaume finds it… inappropriate. Like showing up to a meeting in pajamas. A voice like that belongs behind closed doors, shared in a two centimeter distance between bodies. Not in a ballroom with no less than one hundred people present.  
  
"Have you been properly announced yet? I did not hear your arrival." Pierre reaches one arm around Thomas' shoulders and another around Guillaume's. Guillaume instinctively tenses against the contact, but if Pierre notices his discomfort, he makes no move to accommodate.  
  
"We have not," says Thomas. He has to curve his back quite a bit to remain within Pierre's reach, but it's to their benefit to stay on good terms with the man. If that means putting some strain on the metallic plates in their spines, then it shall be so. "We brought no personnel of our own, as we deemed it more tedious than beneficial."  
  
"Then allow me to do the honors! Come along, this way…"  
  
Walking hip-to-hip with a human of such diminutive size proves to be a task more difficult than either king anticipated, but for all the possible difficulties they could be facing, this is one of the less treacherous ones (though certainly one of the more embarrassing ones). They reach a raised clearing at the back of the room where Pierre solidifies his slipshod stance into something a little more indicative of a man in power.  
  
Pierre picks up a nearby glass of wine that Thomas suspects did not belong to him a few seconds prior and uses a fork to tap out a crisp, staccato sound. The beat is more elaborate than is strictly necessary, but it gets the attention of enough people.  
  
"Attention, please!" Pierre calls out to everyone within listening range. Thomas finally pulls away from the prime minister so that he can iron himself out into his full, regal height. De Homem-Christo pulls away too, but for decidedly different reasons. "Now announcing the arrival of King Bangalter and King de Homem-Christo of the Bangalter-Christo Empire! This is their first _real_ party with humans, so make sure you show them a good time, okay?"  
  
There's some scattered applause sustained just long enough to be considered polite. Then the listeners all return to whatever they were doing before the robots' too-brief introduction.  
  
All, except two men, that is.  
  
Pierre waves them over with the energy of a child. Were it not for his black suit and black tie grounding him in a foundation of professionalism, it's possible that no one would recognize him as an authority figure.  
  
If anyone were to ever show up to a meeting in their pajamas…. Well, Guillaume is starting to suspect Pierre would be that person.  
  
"Thomas, Guillaume," Pierre says, beaming at the men he's beckoned over like a parent seeing his children off to the first day of school. "Allow me to introduce you to some splendid young fellows."

* * *

Sir John Moore has faithfully served his empire for the majority of his young life. He has done all he could to uphold the ideals of chivalry, dedicated his body to rigorous military training, and made a well-loved name for himself amongst the people through countless donations and hours of charity. The kings themselves have honored his efforts on a few occasions, deeming him a hard worker and a visionary. Such words of kindness are not something their overlords lavish on just anyone, leading Moore to believe that he found some sort of favor in the metaphorical eyes of his leaders.  
  
So, then, it baffles him all the more that those leaders have refused, then delayed, his requests for a grievance court. Yes, the annual peace conference is important, but they've never seemed to pay it any mind in the past. Why now, of all times?  
  
Moore is baffled by a lot of things these days. He feels like he shouldn't be—after all, they're living in some of the greatest, most prosperous times there's been in hundreds of years!—but he can't stop apprehension from spreading within him like a fungus. The kings have been cherished since before his time, so he doesn't understand why Sir Zimmerman should be incarcerated for speaking out against them. Don't they have more confidence in their overwhelming following than that? Moore himself had never been a fan of his friend's tendency to publicize his hatred for… well, anyone he deemed worthy of slander, but surely slander isn't enough to land someone in jail?  
  
Moore knows Sir Zimmerman will tough out his time in the slammer like the trooper he was trained to be, but that doesn't make it okay. Or even legal. Is it legal? The Bangalter-Christo Empire might not be a democracy, but it's not a dictatorship either. …Is it? God, he hasn't even been permitted to visit the guy. He wonders what the conditions are like. What if they aren't feeding him? The robots don't need to eat, so they might forget that their human prisoners need to eat too. What if...  
  
Moore paces the full length of his quarters before he sits at a desk and sets himself to filling out one final grievance court request. If they evade this one as well, then he'll take it as a sign that changes must be made.  
  
For the first time in his twenty-six years, Sir Moore is questioning his loyalty to the monarchs.


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter this time. Thank you to the lovelies on tumblr who have blessed me with gorgeous art, and the lovelies here who bless me with kind comments. =)

Bangalter gives the men before him a once-over and cross-references their faces with the hundreds of other faces he saved to short-term memory specifically for this night. Within a heartbeat, his mind's matched them up to a pair of names: Prince-Bishops Augé and de Rosnay. They're a revered pair known for supervising their two respective dioceses in conjunction. Like two hemispheres of a brain, they work to combine different sets of strengths and govern their domains with both the guidance of a spiritual leader and the power of a monarch. For all intents and purposes, their dioceses are considered a single country. Because of their harmoniously shared reign, many have compared them to Bangalter and de Homem-Christo.  
  
Bangalter's always had his reservations about the comparison, especially because the pair in question is human. Doubly so because they are a careful marriage of church and state, and the robots have always had a hands-off policy when it comes to meddling with the humans' penchant for spirituality.  
  
Triply so because the pair calls their ruddy-faced territory the 'New Lands.' No bonus points for creativity there, but then, Bangalter's never been one for naming things. That's more de Homem-Christo's specialty.  
  
"This is Bishop Augé," Pierre says unnecessarily, patting one man on the shoulder, "and this here is Bishop de Rosnay. The New Lands has been an invaluable ally to my country for many years now. It would be remiss of me to not introduce you to them."  
  
Ah, so he's showing off a partner in arms. Well, that's to be expected at a peace conference. Bangalter decides to make the most of the opportunity and leave no rock—or bishop—unturned. After all, the virus could be from anywhere.  
  
Including the tall, solemn, beardy man Pierre is pushing towards him. Right. This one's Bishop Augé. Bangalter makes note to himself once, which is all he needs.  
  
"Go on, have fun! Eat, drink, and be merry! You're allowed to drink on a Sunday night, yeah? Or is that against the rules?"  
  
The dark-haired one, Bishop de Rosnay, glances back at Pierre with a glimmer of humor in his eyes. "Saturday nights. We don't drink on Saturday nights."  
  
"It's no good to show up to services completely hungover," Bishop Augé quietly adds, inclining himself towards Bangalter. He dips his curly mop in a respectful show of deference. Though he offers no further introduction beyond what Pierre's already provided, he allows Bangalter a smile on tight lips. There's something in his reticence that does, admittedly, remind Bangalter a bit of de Homem-Christo. Never tossing around words where a nod and a shrug will suffice.  
  
"Shall we be merry, then?" de Rosnay says, turning his attention fully onto an unsuspecting de Homem-Christo. Bangalter easily reads surprise in the stiff line of his partner's shoulders, but it's virtually undetectable to inexperienced humans. The gold bot recovers quickly, taking de Rosnay's extended hands and following his lead onto the dance floor.  
  
Augé, on the other hand, requires a shooing motion from Pierre before he makes a move to ask for Bangalter's hands. He flinches a little at the coldness of metal plating, but he does an admirable job steering them into the flow of other dancers anyway.

* * *

"This is nice," Bangalter finds himself admitting, adjusting himself to Augé's broad steps with ease. They're almost on par with his own natural stride. "My partner and I have never attended one of these peace conferences before, so I admit I was not sure what to expect."  
  
Augé's brow tightens in thought for a moment, like he's trying to make a difficult decision. Bangalter is intrigued by the shadows those brows cast, by the default slant of Augé's lids, by the stark contrast between eye whites and black pupils. The weight of facial hair starting beneath his nose and pooling down from his chin almost gives his mouth a drooping quality, but by no means does it make him look sleepy or inattentive like it ought to.  
  
Maybe it's the thick, brown curls framing his forehead like a crown, maybe it's the creases of consideration that haven't quite formed themselves into words yet, or maybe it's his uncanny resemblance to the popular depictions of Christianity's Jesus—which, briefly, Bangalter suspects of being an intentionally constructed resemblance—but there's something… potent about the way Augé looks up at Bangalter. Like he could bless or condemn with the very wrinkling of his nose.  
  
Amazing… the subtleties of human expressions.  
  
Such an unfounded notion is oddly illogical for Bangalter. He does his best to ward it off.  
  
"Pedro throws good parties," Augé finally says, almost like he's conceding to something. His gaze can't decide whether to settle on his feet or on the black visor of his dance partner, so it swings between the two as they swing in time to the song. "He's got good tastes in music and alcohol. But these events get a bit tiresome after a few years. It is probably prudent of you to only attend when it suits you."  
  
"Pedro?" Another cross-reference yields a few different dignitaries with the first name Pedro, but none of them seem particularly important.  
  
"Oh, pardon. That's what Xavier—sorry, what Bishop de Rosnay and I call Pierre. It's what his friends call him."  
  
"Ah, I see." Bangalter stows this information away for later. "I can understand why these events would grow tiresome in excess."  
  
Augé murmurs a wordless agreement and redirects his focus to the music. The strings take a particularly dramatic plunge in volume, only to rebuild themselves in a leap and swoop of tempo. The dancers sweep accordingly, dipping themselves from side to side in rocking motions, weaving between each with the pointed precision of a sewing machine's needle. The silk stole on Augé's shoulders sways out in an almost playful manner, gold embroidered crosses glistening in the chandelier light. In rhythm, a matching cross necklace bounces against the modern chasuble that drapes from Augé's broad shoulders like curtains.  
  
Though Bangalter has always imagined religion as a gloomy, monochromatic sort of sport, the man in front of him is red, white, and gold from his high collar to the rings he dons on each finger. Each thin, knobby, smooth finger. Bangalter resists the urge to run the pads of his own over each digit, resists the urge to assess his texture.  
  
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem to be looking for something," Augé suddenly says, shifting his pious gaze upwards with the light of realization.  
  
Bangalter hesitates to confirm or deny such an eerily accurate observation, but he knows that failing to rebuff is as good as saying yes. Instead, he evens his visor with the bishop's eyes and waits for an elaboration.  
  
"You and your partner, both." He shrugs his shoulders to the right, indicating de Rosnay and de Homem-Christo, who appear for a moment and then are gone once again in the crowd. "You both keep looking around. Or perhaps you're looking for each other? We can trade off dance partners, if you are eager to be by his side. I will understand."  
  
Bangalter decides to try for a different approach. "You and Bishop de Rosnay have often been called the human equivalents to de Homem-Christo and myself."  
  
"We have." The corners of Augé's mouth suddenly quirk in what can only be termed a grin. It's a small, subtle look that still manages to reach the bottoms of his eyes. Bangalter continues to marvel at the minute control humans have over their faces, although he's seen thousands of humans before. Perhaps never this close. Never this intimate. One of Augé's decorated hands moves up and rests on the trimming of Bangalter's double breasted coat. "I've yet to determine if such rumors hold any validity, but…"  
  
He guides Bangalter through another gliding motion, and Bangalter finds his mechanical legs only slightly difficult to move with the same fluidity.  
  
"They say robots cannot lie. Is this true?" His voice rises with humor.  
  
"If I were to tell you 'yes,' that could be either honesty or deceit. Perhaps it would be better to test your own question differently."  
  
"Then tell me honestly, King Bangalter. It's an attack, isn't it?" Before Bangalter has a chance to stutter a sound of confusion, Augé quickly adds, "An attack brought you two here. Someone infiltrated your kingdom in some way."  
  
Bangalter weighs his options before giving in with a drawl of resignation, "…Yes. That is why we're here. Someone infected our Minister of Finance with a virus, and we suspect we're at risk as well."  
  
Augé leans back a bit and offers a satisfied nod. "Then we were right."  
  
The song changes over into a lighter waltz, so Augé's pace quickens with it, and his speech hastens to match. Bangalter keeps up as well as a creature of his density can be expected to.  
  
"Bishop de Rosnay and I were given a… vision… No, a prophecy from God. We saw hands of steel lifted to the heavens, and then struck down by a plague. A blackness." Augé's brows draw together, as if he were trying to remember a particularly abstract dream. "We believe that perhaps we are meant to protect you from the plague. We have been likened to you, because we must save you if we are to save ourselves."  
  
"I see," Bangalter says, finding it difficult to wrap his mind around the capricious ideals of spirituality. He can't even begin to offer any insight on such an open-ended prophecy, let alone Augé and de Rosnay's interpretation, so he opts to remain silent.  
  
"Of course, it could have been that we were also tripping on some weird stuff at the time. But we were right about the plague, in a way."  
  
Bangalter wracks his mind to translate the slang into something comprehensible, then reels from a bout of disbelief. He would have suspected Bishop Augé of… joking, if it weren't for the serious consideration flickering across the man's—maybe not so pious after all—features.  
  
"You… you are… permitted such revelry even as Prince-Bishops?" Bangalter questions, unable to slay the bit of incredulity that creeps into his inflection. The ways of human leaders are an eternal mystery to him.  
  
"One thing you must know about Xavier and myself," Augé replies, smiling in a way that seems to indicate he noticed his own slip-up with de Rosnay's name but not bothering to correct himself, "is that the only tradition we follow is our own tradition of, well… twisting traditions."

* * *

Either de Rosnay and Augé happen to tire out at the same time, or they planned to guide their respective robot companions away from the dance floor at the same time, but what matters is that de Homem-Christo is eager to touch bases with Bangalter again. His face almost literally lights up at the sight of said partner stepping out into the sidelines only a small ways away. He stalks over to his silver beacon, de Rosnay wandering over on the tailwinds.  
  
Augé and de Rosnay bow their heads together and engage in some kind of private conversation, busying their hands with straightening out each other's vestments and jewelry in the meantime. De Homem-Christo glances wistfully at them, missing his short range communication with Bangalter more and more by the hour. What he is unable to read through wireless thoughts, he makes up for in assessing Bangalter's body language. He's surprised to find the silver bot pliant and amiable, rather than  stiff and solemn, as he expected.  
  
"Did you enjoy yourself?" Bangalter asks easily, patting his friend on the shoulder where de Rosnay's fleshy hand had been resting for the majority of the dance.  
  
"I'd rather not answer that." De Homem-Christo folds his arms. "Did he talk to you about their prophecy?"  
  
"He did," Bangalter affirms, spotting Pierre over de Homem-Christo's shoulder. The man slings an arm around de Homem-Christo's waist, nearly knocking the otherwise unmovable monarch over with the force of sheer surprise.  
  
"Did they tell you about our extensive network of allies?" Pierre interjects, predicting their conversation either through superhuman hearing or the preemptive knowledge of what his boys would talk to the robots about.  
  
"They did not," Bangalter and de Homem-Christo say in unison.  
  
Augé and de Rosnay flank them on either side—almost like warships closing in on prey—with the corners of their mouths turned up deviously. Not at all the faces of righteous figures. In keeping with this, de Rosnay intones conspiratorially, "It's big."  
  
Bangalter and de Homem-Christo exchange looks.


	8. Engagement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alliances. Semi-researched fencing. Growing conflict. I'm back, after like three years of radio silence, ha. I haven't proofread this, but I'm antsy to get back into the swing of things.

Pierre has ushered their little group into a conference room for privacy. The Prince-Bishops convene together on one side of a marble table, far too long and grand for their five-man meeting, and the Kings seat themselves on the other. Pierre sits at the head of the table and laces his fingers.

“Allow me to be transparent,” Pierre says hurriedly, as he doesn’t want them to be out of public view for longer than they have to be and raise any suspicions. “I harbor fond relations with de Rosnay and Augé. If they want to involve themselves with you two, then my resources are as good as yours. I will protect your lands if anything happens.”

Bangalter nods his appreciation. De Homem-Christo looks thoughtful.

“I also, frankly, have good relations with others like you. I wish to show my support of your kind.” Reaching into a breast pocket, he pushes forward a photo of two robots. They are both relatively human in appearance, giving oath at some political event. “My compatriots, Vinco and Break. Vinco’s organic body was crushed by a tank in the war, and he was completely reconstructed as a robot with what little of his mind could be salvaged.”

“And this one, I recognize—“ de Homem-Christo says, pointing to the robot with long, synthetic hair. “He requested court with us many years ago. He wished to go through our robotizing process…”

Bangalter continues, “He had heard our technology was the cleanest and traveled from mainland to meet with us. He wanted to better his body.”

“Right,” Pierre agrees with a smile. “And it has served him well. I want to protect the safety of people like them—and like you. If someone out there wants to wage war on robots, especially robots in positions of authority, I wish to nip that sentiment in the bud before it starts affecting everyone negatively.”

Although, especially on the mainland, robots are still a minority in the grand scheme of humans who fear being outnumbered, many robots similar to Bangalter and de Homem-Christo have augmented themselves and carved out their own places in politics, education, and general society. The kings are aware of this, though they do not necessarily concern themselves with robot rights outside of their own domain. They each privately make note to research this later.

At that moment, Bangalter greatly feels the absence of short-range communication with his partner. He wishes to determine the exact way de Homem-Christo is processing this information, and with a cursory glance, he decides to risk it just this once.

 _Do you trust their intentions?_ he sends.

 _I think I do,_ de Homem-Christo returns. _I can foresee no dangers in allowing them to align themselves with us. Not that we particularly need help protecting ourselves from outsiders._

Bangalter is relieved to hear the other king’s assessment. _I agree. Nothing to lose from making friends._

 _If you want to call it that,_ de Homem-Christo retorts, quickly returning himself to spoken conversation. Their wireless conversations, by contrast, take mere seconds. So much more efficient. “Prime Minister, we are greatly honored by your support and would like to extend our support to you and the Prince-Bishops in return.”

Pierre smiles, some degree of relief detectable in his brow. Augé and de Rosnay look pleased as well, but not at all surprised. “Wonderful! I will write to both of you further on the matter later this week.” When he stands, all rise with him, and he takes each robot’s cold, firm hands and shakes kindly. “I am so glad you two attended this year’s conference. I’ve longed to meet the famous robot kings for so long.”

Augé and de Rosnay shake as well. “Wonderful meeting you,” and “Thanks for the dance,” they both say.

When the five part ways and reintegrate themselves into the peace conference in an attempt to appear inconspicuous, Bangalter and de Homem-Christo exchange meaningful looks. Even if in practice, Pierre and the Prince-Bishops can’t supply anything that they don’t already have, it’s a useful political statement against whomever their enemy might be.

_We will not go down quietly. When we find you, all will know to loathe your name._

* * *

The day after the convention, things return to routine as though nothing had changed. Word reaches the kings that their Minister of Finance is making a speedy recovery, and that efforts to double down on security for all robot personnel is well underway. In their absence, the castle seems to have sprung into overdrive, attempting to meet the ever-high expectations of its returning masters. So, then, Bangalter and de Homem-Christo must rise to the occasion as well.

In a large, fairly simple room used for exercise, dance practice, and training, they don their white fencing uniforms. The uniforms are unblemished and sleek, with minimalistic décor limited mainly to seams meant to flatter their respective forms. Neither dons gear quite as hefty as a human would, for their bodies have long since been reinforced and reconstructed enough to generally protect any delicate circuitry within. Above anything else, the uniforms are for formality’s sake, though neither would deny that adhering to formalities helps lend them a certain sense of immersion when it comes to envisioning themselves on a battlefield.

Guillaume stands firmly across the way from Thomas, balance unhindered by his elevated boots. He’s learned to adjust for any terrain, no matter the outward impracticality of his footwear. It’s a minor thing to account for, for an infinitely intelligent tactician such as himself. His power lies in his upper body, for the most part, and so that is what he allows to move freely. His sleeves are a touch looser than Thomas’, though just fitted enough to prevent too much wind resistance from the fabric.

Though he and Thomas were originally constructed at the same time, they were designed to balance each other rather than perfectly mirror, and this thought extends to their physicality as well. Thomas, by contrast, specializes in movement and lower body strength. His breeches taper perfectly to each minute curve of his long, sturdy legs. Though not as firm as Guillaume, Thomas has the speed advantage, which is especially advantageous when fencing with an electrical sabre, which calls for quick movements.

Guillaume is the faster thinker, however.

“En garde!” Guillaume says, a touch eager. It has been so long since they’ve engaged in any kind of sword practice, and although they tend to prefer rehearse with real swords and more practical battle techniques, there is certainly something to be said for the artistry and grace of fencing. It lends itself well to the carefully measured movements of robots, and sabre fencing in particular is favored between them as an exercise in spur-of-the-moment problem solving. Beyond that, it is prudent to decide now which elements of sparring must be brought into their short term memory banks, in case access to their long term memory storage ever becomes dangerous or impossible.

Anyway, Guillaume just finds it enjoyable, and Thomas does too. They’re not too proud or prim to have fun with something for the sake of fun. It’s the side of them that allows them to laugh and sigh despite no functional purpose to such actions, aside from perhaps better communicating with humans; not everything needs to serve a logical purpose. In fact, occasional rogue qualities are what make them so suited to be kings. An empire does not act on logic alone.

Thomas straightens, positions his left foot at the line on the ground, and accommodates for the weight of the sabre in his hand. He considers the road ahead for them—the things they may be preparing for, the hardships that may come. It has been so long since combat has crossed his mind.

“ _Allez!_ ” And Guillaume is the first to lunge.

With electrical sabres, they’re able to judge which of them has hit first without need of a referee. The screen of whoever lands a hit first will light up upon contact, and the match will end. The room has the appropriate lines marked down the middle of the floor, indicating where they are to stand and how far they’re able to retreat before being considered out of bounds. Because matches are fast paced and can sometimes last mere seconds, the two kings typically don’t keep score against each other and instead endeavor to build up the prowess to engage each other for as prolonged a period of time as possible. That is to say, they seek to learn each other’s movements and techniques so intimately and completely that they find themselves at a near standstill.

The idea is that no other possible opponent could ever account for their tactics on the level that they can for each other. If Guillaume, for example, has perception and finesse so watertight that Thomas is unable to break through, then how could any lesser robot or slow-witted human hope to land a hit?

And so, Thomas snaps into action, his feet moving with a deftness that his clumsy venture into ballroom dancing wouldn’t have betrayed. He evades and pushes back as best as he can, but there is the slight resistance of disuse about him. Guillaume seems more prepared, and he manages to hit Thomas square in the chest without much difficulty.

“Touché,” Guillaume chirps. He can see the green light of his own screen reflected on Thomas’ screen. “En garde?”

“Allez!” Thomas is more cautious now, nearly grazing Guillaume’s sabre several times, but not out of any lack of ability; he is careful to exert only as much motion as he needs to evade a given attack. He is conserving. He wastes nothing.

Then, the silver king parries and is rewarded with a victory. Guillaume nods his silent approval. They continue on like this for dozens more rounds. Each match grows progressively longer, just as it should, and after a short interval, they’ve final reached an impasse.

Guillaume’s shoulders are heaving; Thomas’ calves are trembling. They engage like they were constructed to go on like this for eternity, and there’s something exhilarating about that notion. They each know every small swatch of weakness in each other so mathematically that it’s almost to no avail.

A moment of stillness uncharacteristic to the sport crosses the room. The walls, which are made of pristine glass stretched from the floor to the ceiling, reflect their standstill at all angles. Typically, these mirrors provide an examination of form for dance practice, or exercises for their human staff. They serve no applicable purpose to something like a fencing match. To turn your back on an opponent in fencing—or a sword fight—would be unthinkable. However…

Guillaume catches a glimpse of one of these reflections and notes the smallest strip of exposed under armor on Thomas’ back. This spot on Thomas’ right flank has a bit of flexibility to it, to allow some particular piece of inner mechanism breadth. There is the slightest give to this spot. A crack in the armor, so to speak. A virtually unknowable sliver of vulnerability.

If anyone were to try to stab Thomas, that would be the spot to do it.

Of course, Thomas is not special. Guillaume has a spot or two like that of his own. This information does not cross Guillaume’s mind with any particular emotion other than a basic acknowledgement that they’d need to be mindful of such weak spots and be certain to shield themselves accordingly if ever they were to enter another war. And, again, seeing Thomas’ back does nothing for Guillaume in a fencing match. Thomas would have to be daft to expose his back at a time like this.

Thomas takes advantage of Guillaume’s reverie and finally takes the point. Their standstill is shattered. “Touché!”

Guillaume bows with the weight of respect and admiration for his partner. “That was good. Let us rest for now.” They lay their sabres on the ground and approach each other, seeking to touch base after an exhausting bout. Guillaume finds himself… strangely bereft, longing for closer contact. He rests a hand on Thomas’ waist, the other on a spot he’d struck Thomas earlier. He knows Thomas isn’t in any way injured from something as flimsy as a sabre, but… still.

“My dear,” Thomas says, and the utterance of affection nearly startles Guillaume. When they transferred thoughts and feelings all the time, they rarely needed to articulate the way they felt about each other anymore. To hear it put to words… It was almost a novelty. “Do you fear what may come for us?”

“I do not,” Guillaume replies earnestly. “You and I can face anything together. I’ve always believed that.”

Thomas allows himself a chuckle. “You are so tender today. Even fencing with you felt like ballroom dancing. Did you miss me yesterday?”

“Perhaps.” The golden robot turns away, but Thomas pulls him back in.

“Well. I missed you.”

The double doors at the far side of the room swing open, urging them to end their banter. A service bot dips her head before approaching, and she bows again. “My lords. I apologize for interrupting, but Sir Moore has filed another urgent request for a grievance court…”

Bangalter verbalizes a small huff—a mere suggestion of a sigh. De Homem-Christo gestures for the service bot to continue.

“I… do not deign to fully comprehend humans, my lords, but if I were to describe it, he seemed deeply agitated. He said this was the last time he would ask before rallying for support.”

“Ah.” The kings straighten.

“Send a messenger to let him know we will convene,” says de Homem-Christo, a little urgent. “Sir Moore has been left waiting too long. Send him our apologies.”

The service bot bows and leave, and the second the door closes behind her, Thomas asks, “Do you think… it’s about…?”

De Homem-Christo curses under his breath and clenches his fists. “If so, I was unaware that there was any sense of attachment between them. If anything, I thought it would come as a relief to Sir Moore. Shit,” and it’s been a long time since Guillaume’s really sworn out loud, too.

“Yeah,” Bangalter agrees, ineloquent, and they head off to prepare for court.


End file.
